


Drifting

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: The Ambush series [1]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-06 23:05:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14658090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: A prequel to the Ambush





	1. A New Case

Strike held up a large hand. “Let me stop you there,” he said to the potential client sat in front of him, a handsome young businessman in a snappy suit. “I’m going to bring my partner in on this meeting. I think it’s likely she’ll be better suited to run your case.”

He picked up the phone and dialled through to Robin’s desk. “Robin, could you step into the meeting?” he asked when she picked up. “I think you’ll want to run this one.”

Robin was delighted. “Of course,” she said, grinning, and took a quick moment to compose herself and put on a professional air. She was still getting used to being a full partner in the business, but she appreciated Strike’s efforts to make her his equal. Two or three cases now he had set her up on and then stepped back, but this was the first time he had offered her a case right from the start. It was just what she needed to take her mind off the fact that her personal life was turning into a disaster area. She walked briskly through to Strike’s office, notebook ready, and pulled up a chair.

The potential client was the very picture of young corporate ambition, with a snappy grey three piece suit and highly polished shoes. In Robin’s mind she had nicknamed him Corporate Guy within the first five minutes. He harboured suspicions that rival companies were getting news of business plans and acquisitions, and had missed out on a couple of lucrative deals because of it. He suspected a leak within his company and needed proof - and total discretion. Robin quizzed him on specifics and who the potential likely suspects were, taking thorough notes.

Strike took a mental step back from the conversation, letting Robin take the lead and ask the questions. He watched her, ostensibly to appraise her with a view to offering any advice necessary later - she was still early in her career - but really to take in how she looked today. She had gradually become thinner and thinner in recent months. Her face was pale now, skin drawn tight with tension, dark smudges under her eyes that she had tried to cover with make up. Strike had suspected for a while that things were not good at home, and she looked worse than usual today, but she hadn’t said anything and he hadn’t asked. Such an enquiry went beyond the bounds of the professional relationship he had sought to reestablish since her return to work and instatement as full partner. Robin had gone ahead and married Matthew despite knowing he had been unfaithful in the past, a move Strike considered deeply ill-advised, but it was her business. He would not admit, even to himself, how annoyed he was that she had made that choice. It was her life, and if she chose to spend it with that idiot... He pulled his thoughts back to the meeting at hand.

Corporate Guy seemed happy with Robin’s suggestions on how they should begin, and was soon dispatched with a copy of their terms and rates and a contract to fill out and return. Robin had handled the meeting well, and Strike told her so, to try to boost her morale and also, truth be told, to see her flush a little and smile. She seemed to have little to smile about lately.

“Right,” Strike said. “It’s four o’clock now, I think we should declare today over and go and have a drink to celebrate your first 100% solo client. How about it?”

Robin giggled. “It’s Monday,” she said. “I thought we saved pub nights for Fridays?”

“Special circumstance,” Strike said, grinning. He liked to hear her laugh. “Well, put it this way. I’m going to go and raise a drink to your client. Would you like to join me?”

They strolled down to the Tottenham in companionable silence, Strike smoking as they went. It was one of the things he liked best about Robin - she didn’t fill every lull in conversation with inane chatter like so many women, like his sister Lucy. She was happy just to be, and he found her company restful.

They arrived at the pub, bought drinks, found a table. Strike grabbed a menu. “Just in case”, he said, and Robin smiled.

They raised their glasses to Corporate Guy - Strike was amused that he already had a nickname - and sat in silence again for a while. Robin looked down at her drink, and the set of her shoulders seemed a little slumped. She seemed sad, somehow, deflated, and Strike fought a small internal battle as to whether to ask her if she was all right. He didn’t want to seem uncaring, but he also didn’t want to pry.

He decided that he probably should ask, as a friend of course, how she was. He opened his mouth to start to frame the question, but Robin suddenly spoke first. “Could I take Thursday morning off?” she asked abruptly.

Wrong-footed, Strike stumbled over his words. “Er, of course,” he said. “Why? Shit, sorry, none of my business. Yes, of course you can.” Robin never asked for time off.

She looked up at him, and his heart lurched suddenly at the pain there, the resignation, the unshed tears. “To move house,” she said, shakily.

“Are you and Matthew moving?” he asked carefully.

“No,” she said. “Just me.” A tear spilled down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily and fished in her bag for a tissue. Forcing her voice to normality, she went on. “I’ve found a room in a flat with a girl called Angela. It’s closer, be easier for work.”

Strike sighed heavily. He wasn’t entirely surprised. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words sounding hopelessly inadequate. Maybe because he wasn’t really sorry. He was sorry that she was so sad, but a small part of him was relieved that she had finally come to her senses. He hesitated, wondering if a physical gesture was necessary, but what? A hug? Too dangerous, perhaps inappropriate. A pat on the shoulder? Patronising. A squeeze of her hand? Definitely inappropriate. You may be overthinking this, he told himself.

“It’s for the best,” Robin said, and as she said it she realised that she meant it. That made her feel stronger. She was making the right move. “I think I thought getting married would fix things, but...” she tailed off.

“I have no proof whatsoever, it’s just a hunch,” she went on, slowly, “but I think Matthew and Sarah...” She paused again. “I’m not sure I even think they’re seeing each other again. I just think they have unfinished business. She’s certainly always acted like they have, and lately he...”

Strike said nothing.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, a lot,” she continued. “I think if I hadn’t been... unwell for so long after I left uni, probably Matthew would have broken up with me for her then. But he couldn’t. And he did a good job of convincing himself it was me he wanted.”

She grinned at Strike, suddenly, tears still glittering in her eyes, but her voice was stronger now. “I know you never liked him,” she said, and Strike opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. Her words were in fact an understatement of his feelings towards the young accountant. “But he never used to be like he’s been in the last couple of years. Since we got engaged, really. I think he’s been as unhappy as I have. We’ve just drifted, and tried to hold it all together, but...”

Strike nodded. “Same with me and Charlotte,” he said. “We stayed together a good couple of years longer than we should have.” Robin smiled sadly, understanding that better now.

Silence descended on the conversation again. Robin looked sad, but resigned. She was a little afraid of facing a future without Matthew, but for the first time, she was less afraid of that than of a future with him, a future where neither of them was truly happy, and they slowly became bitter and resentful of one another. Their agreement to split had almost been amicable.

Strike gazed into his pint and wrestled with his unruly emotions. A burst of hope had blossomed in his chest. She was free now - he was sure this time that the split was permanent, she was definite, he could tell - and maybe, maybe... Stop it, he told himself. She’s just coming out of a ten-year relationship. The last thing she’ll be looking for is another. And that’s without the consideration that we’re colleagues, partners, building the business together. It would be madness to even think of complicating things with... what? Some kind of romantic relationship? A fling? Just stop, he thought, firmly.

“So,” Robin continued, as though the pause hadn’t happened. “You now constitute 100% of my friends in London.” She laughed a little. “Everyone we used to hang out with was Matthew’s friend. So I need to do something about that. I thought I might do an evening class or something. And I thought...” she hesitated, uncertain. “I thought I might see if Ilsa wants to go for coffee sometime. She and I hit it off really well when you were staying there and we worked out of their living room.”

Strike smiled. “Well, I can’t recommend Ilsa highly enough as a friend,” he said warmly. “I’ve known her since we were six.” He grinned and added, “And you’re definitely going to need more friends than just me. I’m good for a pint in the pub, but I’m truly crap at shopping.”

Robin laughed aloud at the thought of Strike trailing around boutiques or poking about in flea markets. The image was absurd. He laughed too, purely at the joy of hearing her laugh. She was giggling now, and grinned at him. “Okay, I promise I won’t make you go shopping with me,” she said. Their eyes met, hers still dancing with merriment. Strike was smiling at her, but something else in his eyes made her heart flutter. She was suddenly very aware of him, large and masculine and sitting so close across the table, in a way she’d not been before.

Stop it, she told herself. He’s your friend, don’t get confused just because you’re feeling vulnerable and having a bonding moment over a joke. She realised she’d been so caught up in her home life disintegrating, in maintaining her professionalism at work, in building the business and trying to live up to her new status as partner, she’d not looked at him properly, really looked, for months. Had he always been so attractive and she’d just never noticed before? She shook her head a little. Stop it!

“My round,” she said, briskly, getting up and heading for the bar. Strike watched her go and smiled fondly. There you are, he told his unruly heart. She’s said it out loud, what she needs right now is friends. That’s your only role here.


	2. Moving Day

Robin trudged slowly up the office stairs on Thursday afternoon, her arms and back aching from carrying boxes and her heart aching for the end of her marriage. She wished now she had taken the whole day off. Matthew had gone to work as normal that morning, which she had insisted upon. She didn’t think she could bear to have him help, or even be there while she hauled her belongings out to the old Land Rover.

She reached the door to the office and squared her shoulders, mentally putting on her professional air, and went in. Strike was at his desk. She called a greeting in as cheerful a voice as she could manage, and went through the familiar, comforting routine of removing coat and scarf and hanging them up with her handbag on the coat rack behind the door. She heard Strike rumble a greeting in return.

She moved across to her desk, and was startled to see a small gift bag sat there. There was no note, but it could only be from Strike. She was surprised. They were not normally in the habit of giving one another gifts. She peered into it, and saw a packet of her favourite biscuits and a small tube of expensive hand cream, one that she normally kept in her desk drawer as a little luxury but which had recently run out.

Robin burst into tears.

“Shit, that was not the plan,” said Strike from the doorway to his office. He retreated back to his desk for the box of tissues that was a necessary item to keep to hand when one often had to provide wives with evidence of their cheating husbands. He returned and plonked it in front of Robin and retreated again, this time to the kitchenette, hoping she would have managed to pull herself together by the time he’d made her a cup of tea.

She had not. He put the cup of tea in front of her and stood there helplessly while she sobbed into a handful of tissues, standing frozen in front of her desk. “Um... would you like to sit down?” he asked, gesturing vaguely towards the sofa. Robin didn’t answer, but cried harder. He reached out awkwardly and put a hand on her shoulder.

At his touch she turned to him and abruptly buried her face in his chest, shoulders heaving. Slightly horrified, Strike managed to resist the urge to back away, instead bringing his other hand up to pat gently between her shoulder blades, making what he hoped were soothing noises while she hiccoughed and sobbed into his shirt. But her distress was so great that his awkwardness dissolved in a swell of protectiveness. He wrapped his arms around her.

“Hey, hey,” he said gently, and she managed to get herself under control a little.

Robin had no idea where the tears had suddenly come from. She had felt sad on her way from her new flat to the office, but knew she had done the right thing. Then the unexpected and kind gesture of Strike’s gift had undone her completely. Suddenly she had felt alone in the world, the safety of a shared home and a marriage gone like a rug pulled from under her, all at sea, lost. Strike’s hug reminded her that she wasn’t alone, that she had friends.

I need to step away now, pull myself together, she thought. But she didn’t. He was so broad and warm, taller and bigger than Matthew, his arms stronger than Matthew’s, his hug more comforting, his solid chest reassuring. And he smelled good, warm and smoky and masculine...

Abruptly she pulled back, stepped away from him perhaps a little too forcefully, and he dropped his arms to his sides. “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed, wiping her eyes. “I just... I wasn’t expecting to be so upset. I know I’ve done the right thing. It’s just...”

Strike smiled at her gently. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s a big step. Takes a lot of getting used to. Sit down, drink your tea. I’ve got something to show you,” he added.

Her interest was piqued at once. “What is it?” she asked. She took the biscuits from the gift bag and her mug from the desk and moved across to the sofa to sit down. Strike picked up an envelope from the top of her in tray, opened it and handed her the contract inside. She dropped the biscuits onto the seat next to her and took it, curious.

“Your first proper contract, with your name on as the lead investigator rather than mine,” he said, grinning, as she leafed through it and saw Corporate Guy’s neat signature on the dotted lines. “Arrived this morning.”

She grinned, suddenly feeling much better. “That’s just what I need,” she said. “I think I can do this one and do it well, it plays to my skill set. And it’ll keep me busy.” She looked up at him, shy for a moment. “Thank you,” she said. “I hope I haven’t snivelled on you too much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Strike replied, trying and failing to erase the feel of her in his arms from his mind. Robin put the contract down on the floor beside her tea and opened the biscuits. “Five minute break to eat these and we’ll get back to work,” she said, smiling, and offered him one. “Thank you. It’s my favourite hand cream, too.”

Strike looked at his feet. “Well, I saw the empty tube in the bin last week,” he said, and took a biscuit.


	3. Ilsa and Nick

With a slight feeling of trepidation, Robin texted Ilsa.

“Hi! It’s Robin. Hope you don’t mind, I asked Cormoran for your number. Fancy meeting for coffee/shopping and a catch up? x”

It was Saturday morning, and she had an unexpectedly free weekend. Her previous case had finished the week before, and Corporate Guy she would start on Monday. Strike was finally satisfied he had enough proof of infidelity to wrap up his latest late-night surveillance case, and had declared the weekend work-free, although he would probably be in the office at some point to write up his conclusions ahead of next week’s final meeting. Robin was surprised to find herself feeling a little sad at the thought of not seeing him until Monday. Don’t be silly, she told herself. It’s just because you’re not used to weekends alone, that’s all. On impulse she had asked him to text her Ilsa’s number.

Her left hand was restless. Her thumb kept moving to rub the bare place where her wedding and engagement rings had sat. Her finger felt naked, exposed. A coffee and a chat will do me good, she thought. It would be nice to have someone to talk to who was totally separate from Matthew, nothing to do with her former life.

The answer came back fairly quickly from Ilsa. “God, yes! Nick got up super early for work and I couldn’t get back to sleep. Already hoovered and done dinner, bored now! Fancy coming to Wandsworth? New cafe opened on the high street x”

“On my way! x” Robin texted back, and grabbed her coat.

...

Ilsa pounced on Nick the minute he got home from work that afternoon. “Guess what guess what guess what!” she said excitedly.

He smiled fondly at her. “Let me at least take my shoes off,” he said. “What?”

“Robin and Matthew have split up!” she said, excitedly, bouncing on her toes in the hallway in her excitement. Then she looked a little ashamed. “Which I admit I probably shouldn’t be acting so happy about, the demise of a marriage and all that. Very sad. BUT...!”

“But?” Nick asked.

“Oh, come on, you’ve seen the way Corm looks at her,” Ilsa cried. “He’s crazy about her, I’m sure of it. Oh, this is so fantastic, they’ll make such a lovely couple, and she’s SO much nicer than Charlotte, she’s perfect for him.”

“Hang on, slow down!” said Nick, laughing. “Start from the beginning. How do you even know this? Are you quite sure you have your facts right?”

Ilsa explained about Robin’s text and their morning coffee date.

“Okay, so Robin is newly single,” Nick said. “But she’s still got to sort out getting divorced and everything, she isn’t going to rush into anything else. And are you sure Oggy even sees her that way?”

“Pretty sure,” she said. “He mentions her all the time...”

“In a work context,” Nick reminded her. “He talks about work a lot.”

“Yes, but this is different,” Ilsa insisted. “He has this... look in his eyes when he mentions her. And you’ve seen them together, the body language, they just go well together.”

“Mm, I’m less sure than you,” Nick mused. “I’ll agree that he thinks she’s attractive, you can see that in him. But is it any more than that? And I think the vibe you see between them is just a working one. Are you sure she feels the same way?”

Ilsa hesitated. “Yeah, that could be a problem,” she said. “You’re right, I’m not sure she sees him the same way he sees her. Yet.”

“Yet?” Nick grinned.

“Ah, she will,” Ilsa said. “Oh, she has to, surely? They’d be so lovely together. We have to make sure she does.”

“Ilsa, keep your nose out of it, no good will come of meddling,” Nick warned. “And Oggy won’t thank you for it.”

Ilsa pouted. “But they’d be perfect together,” she reiterated. “Oh, Nick, I just want Corm to be as happy as we are. He was the one who got us together, can’t we do the same for him now?”

Nick pulled a face. “He introduced us,” he said, “and we did the rest. They’ve already been introduced, and they’re working together, business partners. Don’t go stirring things up, Ils, you risk making a mess of it.”

She sighed. “You’re right, as ever,” she said. “We’ll have to wait for them to sort this out themselves. Gah, how frustrating.” She sighed, and then smiled up at him. “I’ve made dinner, so we can just veg out this afternoon. Fancy a walk or something?”

He grinned at her. “Or we could just go to bed for the rest of the afternoon,” he said, cheekily, grabbing her round the waist.

“Mm, much better idea,” she murmured as he buried his face in her neck.

 

 


	4. Nick and Strike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to post two chapters because they’re short.

“So, Oggy, mate,” Nick began, when pints had been bought and pleasantries exchanged. They were sat in the beer garden of a pub near the hospital where he worked. “Ilsa tells me Robin is now a single woman.”

Strike looked at him over the rim of his glass. He took a long drink and then set the glass down. “So I gather,” he said, guardedly.

“Well?” Nick demanded.

Strike lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. He exhaled, looking across at his friend, his expression carefully neutral. “Well what?” he said.

“Come off it, mate,” Nick snorted. “She’s a pretty girl, and I know you’ve noticed. She’ll not be single long. Are you going to ask her out?”

Strike glared at him. “She’s my business partner and friend,” he said, “both of which would be ruined if I did any such thing. Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.” He took another drag of his cigarette, looking away across the beer garden, irritated with himself for feeling flustered at this line of questioning, for overreacting to Nick’s suggestion, and irritated at Nick for talking about it.

Nick was watching him with narrowed eyes. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” he said shrewdly. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.” He saw Strike’s gaze flick back towards him briefly.

Strike rolled his eyes, but he was angrier than he was letting on, and more than a little rattled. Nick’s words had poked a nerve. If he had noticed, could Robin have sensed something? He was going to have to be more careful.

“You’re imagining things,” he said dismissively. “Ilsa’s been filling your head with romantic nonsense. Robin and I work well together and that’s it.”

Nick grinned. “Come on, Oggy, it’s me,” he said. “I’ve known you for years, remember? I know when you’ve got a woman in your sights. You talk about her all the time...”

“We work together,” Strike said tightly. “I can’t talk about work without her coming into it, and work is all I do.” He wished Nick would change the subject.

Nick just looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and waited.

Strike sighed. “What do you want from me?” he demanded. “Okay, I acknowledge she’s an attractive woman. Doesn’t change anything. Matthew or no Matthew, we are work partners and colleagues and no more. Anything else would be madness, the business is still precarious. And she doesn’t see me that way, anyway.”

Nick snorted again. “Most women see you ‘that way’ eventually,” he laughed. “Just wait and see.”

Strike scowled. “Can we please talk about something else?” he asked, and Nick took pity on him and moved on to football.

Later, recounting the conversation to Ilsa, Nick was thoughtful. “I think you might be right, Ils,” he said. “He denied it, of course, but he was rattled that I had asked. And there was something else...”

“What?” Ilsa demanded. She had quizzed him for every word exchanged.

Nick pulled a face. “I don’t know,” he said. “Almost like... like he found it painful to talk about. He had this kind of look like he just really wanted me to shut the fuck up.”

Ilsa grinned. “I knew it!” she said. “Oh, I hope Robin feels the same. I wish I knew her better to just ask.”

“Ilsa, please just leave it,” Nick begged. “Oggy really doesn’t want to take it further, that I do believe. What if she doesn’t feel the same? They still have to work together.”

Ilsa said nothing, but she had a twinkle in her eye that made her husband suspicious.

 


	5. Redhead

Strike and Robin sat at either end of Robin’s desk, going over reports on various clients and comparing notes. Corporate Guy had asked Robin not to temp at his office this week - he was so paranoid about the leaker of secrets suspecting that he or she was being watched, he regularly cycled Robin out and replaced her with real temps from various agencies. So Robin had taken a turn tailing Redhead this week.

  
“I have to say,” she said, a note of teasing in her voice, “I’m surprised you don’t complain about Redhead more. I know you said tailing her was boring, but it’s really boring. She just does the same stuff over and over.”

  
“I did say!” Strike laughed.

  
“I know, but now I’ve spent a week with her, I’m just surprised you don’t complain more,” she said, winking at him. He grinned. “My crossword skills are greatly improved, though,” he said. “I’m sure the owners of that cafe opposite her gym must think I’m unemployed. I sat there every afternoon last week, drinking coffee. But for one pesky clue on Thursday, I’d have finished the crossword every day, a new record for me.”

  
Robin laughed. “Glad you’re working those brain cells,” she said. “More tea? My turn to make.”

  
“Please,” Strike said. He took advantage of the break in their work to stretch, pulling his arms back and stretching his back and shoulders out, moving from side to side. These were some of his favourite times of their working week, comparing notes and getting her insights. He glanced across at her in the kitchenette, then hurriedly removed his gaze as she bent over to retrieve the milk from the fridge, presenting him with a glorious view of her backside. Since leaving Matthew she had looked better, happier, and he couldn’t help but notice that her figure was filling out nicely. She had been too thin. He got up and moved over to the window, pushing it open wider so he could smoke out of it.

  
Robin brought him his tea, the perfect treacle colour that he liked, and he smiled at her as she passed it to him. She smiled back, her eyes meeting his, and where normally he would have looked away, this time he didn’t. His gaze held hers steadily for a moment, and he fancied he saw a flash of fondness in her eyes answering that in his own. He was glad that she felt as comfortable working with him as he did with her. Then, remembering Nick’s questioning, he dropped his gaze away from hers. He didn’t want her to think his feelings were anything more.

 


	6. A Warm Day

The spring sun was warm as Robin walked along Denmark Street to the office. There was a lightness to her step. She was enjoying life again, she realised. Work consumed her interest. The pottery evening class she had begun attending with her flatmate Angela gave her a creative focus. She had been out with Angela and her friends a couple of times. Last week she had even been chatted up by a guy at one of the bars they went to. He wasn’t her type, hadn’t aroused a spark of interest in her, but it reminded her that there was life after Matthew.

She bought two coffees at the cafe over the road from the office, crossed the street and let herself in, climbing the stairs to their door. It was locked, so she found her keys again and opened it. Strike was usually here before her, but not always.

There was no movement overhead, though. She listened for a moment, then put the coffees down on her desk. She pulled her phone from her pocket and texted him.

“Are you up? It’s ten to nine!” Then, as a cheeky afterthought, “Coffee will go cold. If you’re not down in 5, I’ll bring it up ;)”

There was a pause as the message sent. She waited, listening, then heard a sudden thump from overhead, as though someone had knocked something over in their haste. She giggled and went to put his coffee on his desk. He’s slept through his alarm again, she thought.

Four and a half minutes later, Strike appeared at the office door. Robin was by her desk, still standing, opening the post. She smiled at him, sweetly innocent. “Morning,” she said, the merest hint of a smirk at the edge of her lips. Then she looked at him properly and her eyes widened slightly.

He looked... gorgeous was the only word for it. His eyes were still soft with sleep, his hair rumpled. His shirt was clean and crisp but his skin looked bed-soft, his jaw unshaven and dark. He had an air almost of vulnerability. He smiled at her with just a hint of embarrassment that she knew he’d overslept again, and her stomach lurched. He is so attractive, she thought. How did I never notice before? She was suddenly hyperaware of his size, his stubble, his masculinity, and she felt a surge of heat in her groin that she hadn’t felt for months and months. She dragged her eyes back to the pile of post in front of her.

“Morning,” he responded. “Anything interesting?” He moved across to her, his eyes on the pile of letters she was sorting through. As he came closer she could feel the heat emanating from his skin, still warm from bed, and she could smell him, masculine and slightly musky. The heat in her groin twisted into a tight ache, and she almost made a small noise in the back of her throat. I’m... aroused, she thought, slightly horrified. She felt a flush of embarrassment sweep up her face and hurriedly stepped back. “Er, not really looked through it all yet,” she managed. He glanced up at her, at the flush of her cheeks, and frowned slightly.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said, too quickly. “Bit warm, long walk.”

He nodded, his eyes dropping back to the post. “Feels more like spring today,” he commented, going through the pile of letters. She couldn’t stop looking at his hands, big and strong, his calloused fingers sorting deftly through the papers. Suddenly she was wondering what they would feel like in her hair, on her body.

Stop it, she told herself. You’re being ridiculous, he’s your boss.

He looked up at her and she jumped slightly, saw him notice, his brows knitting together briefly. “I had an idea last night,” he said. “The McCaffery case. Wanted to run a theory past you. We’ll need those maps of the area, and Google Maps and the CCTV. Bring the laptop through?” He strode off to his office.

“Be right there,” she called after him. She hurried out to the little bathroom on the landing to splash some cold water on her face and glare at herself in the small mirror. Get a grip, she told her reflection. This is nothing. It’s been a really long time since you’ve seen any action in the bedroom department and he just happens to be a man. That’s all this is. He’s your boss and friend, and no more.

For so long, that physical side of her had been switched off, buried under misery and a difficult end to her marriage, and then the loneliness she had felt as she readjusted to being single again. She had thrown all her focus into work. But something about the spring sunshine and her newfound happiness seemed to be waking that dormant part of her. I just need to focus on the cases, she thought. She walked briskly back to her desk, grabbed her coffee and the laptop and went through to Strike’s office. He had cleared his desk, piles of paper moved to the floor, and spread out the maps of the area around the club. His monitor showed the CCTV footage of the night that the case hinged on.

“The maps and the CCTV footage make it clear that our suspect couldn’t have got in by any of the doors indicated,” he said. “But what if the maps are wrong? I looked on my mobile last night and I think Google Maps shows an alleyway running across the back of the building that’s not on these paper maps. Couldn’t see properly on the small screen so I left it.”

Robin called up Google Maps on the laptop and put in the postcode. She enlarged the image on the screen, peering at it. “I think you’re right,” she said.

Strike leaned in to peer at it too, his face inches from hers. She glanced sideways at him. She could see the stubble along his jaw, black with, she noticed now, a few flecks of grey at his jawline. His scent reached her again and suddenly the heat in her groin surged once more, tightening. She had to concentrate on breathing evenly.

“There,” he said, pointing, his big hand almost on top of hers on the keyboard. “Really narrow, you wouldn’t get a car down there.” He moved back to look at the maps on his desk and she breathed out, shakily. “It’s not on these, look,” he said. “They make it seem like the buildings are attached.”

He moved around his desk and pulled his chair up, sat down, hands on his own keyboard to search the CCTV footage. “Grab a chair,” he said, waving vaguely at the space next to him, eyes on the screen. He was utterly focused on solving the puzzle in front of him.

Robin dragged the spare chair across and sat next to him. He was scrolling back and forth through the footage until he found the part he wanted. “Here, camera five,” he said. “Look there, that shadow at the back of the building. That’s the entrance to the alleyway, isn’t it?”

He turned the screen to face her, but Robin still had to lean across him to see properly. Her arm was on the arm rest of his chair, her hand almost on his stomach as she leaned closer, peering at the fuzzy image on the screen. “Hard to tell,” she said, determinedly ignoring the heat sweeping through her with his body so close to hers. Get a grip, she told herself again.

His hands moved across the keys. “Wonder if camera three can see it,” he muttered. “Because if he could have got in undetected, then he’s still a suspect. The police are convinced he wasn’t there because he doesn’t appear going in any of these doors that night on CCTV, and they know where he was in the early evening. But his alibi for later on is dodgy. I think he was there. He got in somehow. I might go down there tomorrow and have another look around.”

Robin sat back, glad of a moment to compose herself as he focused on his screen. What is going on with you? She reprimanded herself. He was turned slightly away from her, peering at the screen, and she found herself gazing at his jawline, at his ear and the patch of smooth skin below it, just above where his stubble began. She had a sudden almost overwhelming urge to lean forward and kiss him there, to taste that small, soft patch of skin. Heat swept through her in waves and she felt her breasts tighten and her nipples harden.

Oh, my God, she thought, as though she were observing herself from the outside. Look at you. You’re horny, sat here next to him. She had never reacted to Matthew like this, even in the early days. For a moment she allowed herself to drift, wondering what it would be like to have Strike’s fierce eyes look at her with desire, to have him touch her, his body pressed... Stop it!

“Tea,” she said, and to her horror, her voice came out as a squeak. Distracted from the screen, Strike glanced sideways at her, and she jumped up and hurried away. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she called back over her shoulder. Strike frowned slightly. She was being very odd this morning. He turned back to his monitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this was partly inspired by that tiny bit in the CoE TV series where Strike is waiting for Whittaker and we get that precise angle of him. One of the (few) moments where Strike in my head is more Tom Burke than book. The pic in question is on my Tumblr lulacat3, [here](https://lulacat3.tumblr.com/post/173920204475). Thank you ZoeSong for teaching me how to hyperlink on a phone! :)


	7. A Finished Case

Strike raised his pint. “Here’s to a job well done,” he said, grinning, “and a bill paid on time! Cheers.” Robin clinked her glass to his, grinning back at him. “Shame all our clients can’t just pay their bills when we invoice them,” she said. “Nice to know some people still have a little integrity.”

She looked good tonight, he thought. She had worked hard on this case, throwing a lot of effort into it - initially, he suspected, to take her mind off her divorce, which he gathered from Ilsa was proceeding well. Ilsa wasn’t handling her divorce, but he knew Robin discussed it with her. If he happened to casually enquire about it from Ilsa, he was just showing a friendly interest, and if Ilsa wondered why he didn’t just ask Robin himself, she never said so. But Robin’s interest had been caught by the intricacies of this case, he knew, and she had benefited from having a focus, something to consume her interest. She had also started a pottery class in the evenings with Angela, her new flatmate, and had been out with Angela and her friends a few times as well as meeting Ilsa for coffee. She was growing happier, and it showed in her fuller figure, her pinker cheeks, a more confident set of her shoulders. She was blossoming away from her latterly difficult relationship with Matthew.

All of these things were good for Robin, but they played havoc with Strike’s peace of mind. The more she grew in confidence and happiness, the more drawn to her he was. He could convince himself before that at least part of what he felt for her was a brotherly concern, when she was pale and drawn and always a little sad. But he could no longer deny to himself that what he felt for this new, confident, sexy Robin was desire. Desire and, he was alarmed to realise, a lot more. He had allowed himself to become very fond of her. Feelings that he had allowed to grow when he could imagine that they were protective in nature had turned out to be anything but. He enjoyed her company, she made him smile, made his heart lurch when she cast teasing looks at him. More and more he had found himself thinking about her when she wasn’t there, in the evenings and at weekends, resisting the urge to text her whenever some thought occurred to him that he knew she would be interested in, hoping every time his phone pinged that it would be her - and it often was. A closeness had grown between them in recent months that he should not have allowed, but he was so tired of fighting it. She had even begun to creep into his dreams, initially just in passing, but a few nights ago more vividly. He had been in Cornwall, on the beach, younger and whole again. Ilsa was there, and a couple of other school friends, hazy on the edge of the picture, and suddenly there was Robin as she was now, red-gold hair gilded by the sun, blue-grey eyes laughing up at him, her hand in his. He had leaned down to kiss her, but in the dream she somehow slipped out of his grasp, always nearby but never quite in front of him. He had woken frustrated and confused, and struggled to look her in the eye for most of the day.

He was reminded of the dream now as they chatted, her hair glinting in the pub lights, her eyes dancing with happiness, the satisfaction of a job well done. A second round of drinks went down too easily, and, against his better judgment, a third. A flush in her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes told him she was becoming quite tipsy after a third glass of wine. He came back from the toilets to discover she had fetched him a fourth pint while he was gone, opting for a coke for herself, he noticed, so she must have been feeling the effects of the wine. He really wasn’t sure a fourth pint was a good idea, very afraid he would give himself away if he let his guard down, she looked so beautiful.

She was leaning towards him across the table, chatting away, telling him about her latest attempts to master the pottery wheel, hilarious stories of pots gone wrong and splattered clay. Her hand dropped to his arm to emphasise a point and lingered, her fingers warm through his shirt sleeve, and he didn’t pull away. Her eyes held his, her smile for him alone. She’s flirting with me, he realised dimly, his heart pounding. She’s also a little drunk. He knew he should put a stop to it, this dangerous turn the evening was taking, but he couldn’t, didn’t want to. His heart longed for her, for her attention, for her to feel the same way he did. He was utterly captivated by her, unable to look away.

The evening had passed far too quickly, the fourth pint gone, carrying with it all his resolutions to keep her at arm’s length. He knew his feelings were breaking free, knew he was allowing his gaze to hold hers too long, afraid she would see that what he felt was more than friendship. But if she did, she wasn’t pulling away from him. A strand of hair fell across her face and he found his hand reaching up to touch it. He caught himself, snatching his hand back, hoping she hadn’t noticed, but he saw her flush and brush her hair aside herself, and knew she had. Her eyes dropped to the table, shy, then she looked back up at him and held his gaze. She’s definitely flirting, he thought. He had a sensation of falling, drowning in her eyes. Conversation halted, the moment stretched. Suddenly all he could think about was kissing her, and he had an overwhelming feeling that she wanted him to. His eyes flicked briefly to her lips and he thought he heard her breath catch. Then the landlord called time and clarity returned. Strike dragged his eyes from her. You’re imagining things, he told himself.

“Time to go,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll walk you to the Tube, it’s late.”

She stood, wobbly, giggling, and wrestled with her coat. He watched, amused, as she struggled to find the second sleeve, then helped her. His hand brushed her shoulder as he pulled the jacket up, and did he imagine that she shivered at his touch? They made their way out of the pub, Robin weaving just slightly, and once outside she tucked her arm through his as they set off up the street together. He was very aware of the side of her breast pressed against his arm through her thin coat as they walked along. Robin was talking about her flat now, about how she was thinking of rearranging her furniture, but he was struggling to concentrate on the actual words, only able to see how beautiful she was and to feel sad that the evening was coming to an end.

They reached the Tube station and stopped. Robin was rummaging in her bag for her Oyster card. “Good night,” he said, softly. “Safe journey.” She looked up at him and smiled, so pretty, and on impulse he bent his head to kiss her cheek. He was not normally given to such a gesture of affection, but the magic of the evening and the beer had eroded all his normal resolutions. He saw her eyes soften as he leaned down. Then at the last moment, she turned her head to him and met his lips with her own.

Strike actually jumped as their lips met, at the unexpectedness of it, at the heat that surged through him. Before he could think what a bad idea this was, she was reaching up, grabbing the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer. Her mouth opened and her tongue sought his, and he fell into her, no longer even trying not to. His hand came up to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in that silky hair that he had longed to touch for so many months, his tongue meeting hers, desire coursing through him. She gave a little moan, pressing closer to him, kissing him eagerly, and he kissed her back, unable to stop himself. She tasted amazing, sweet and hot and uniquely Robin. She filled his senses, the smell of her perfume, the feel of her hair, the taste of her, the sound of her soft moan.

For a few moments he was lost in her, and then reality suddenly hit hard. This was Robin, his friend, his business partner, and she was more than a little tipsy. He was taking advantage. He pulled back reluctantly. “Robin...” he said. She opened her eyes and looked at him, her face flushed, and he pulled away. “Sorry,” he said, abruptly. “Um...”

But she didn’t look offended or embarrassed. She just giggled, and flushed pinker. “Night,” she said and smiled, so beautiful it took his breath away. She turned with a little wobble and left. She gave him a cheeky wave as she went through the ticket barrier, and disappeared round the corner.

Strike stood frozen, staring at the point where she had disappeared, unable to quite comprehend what had just happened. He could still taste her, feel her.

Christ, he thought. Now what?

 

 


	8. Colleagues

What happened next was nothing. Strike was restless all weekend. He buried himself in work to avoid the temptation to text or ring Robin. To say what? he asked himself. I’m sorry I kissed you? Would you like to do it again? He smoked far too many cigarettes and worked late into the night until he was tired enough to sleep, but even then he couldn’t get rid of thoughts of her, twining into his dreams as his mind refused to ignore her.

At first the feelings his dreams tortured him with were of longing, of romance, of sun-kissed Cornish beaches and walks on the sand. But on Sunday night, still undecided how to behave towards her at work the following morning - professionalism is the only option, he told himself - he drank several whiskys in an attempt to anaesthetise himself. He sank gratefully into sleep at a reasonable time only to awaken early in the morning from one of the most erotic dreams he had ever had, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets, horny and frustrated and slightly ashamed at such impure thoughts of Robin, his friend and colleague. The specifics of the dream eluded him, but snapshot images remained, of her in his bed, writhing beneath him, softly moaning, red-gold hair spread across his pillow. A cold shower didn’t calm him down enough to sleep again, so he went downstairs to his desk to carry on working. Work had always been his refuge from unwanted thoughts. It distracted and soothed him. He was getting plenty done.

His stomach lurched with fear at her familiar tread on the stairs at five to nine. She breezed into the office, sunshine and smiles as always, the little tray of coffees in one hand and the post in the other, just as she usually did, calling a cheerful greeting that he answered as normally as he could manage. There was the usual pause while she hung up her coat and bag, a pause which today seemed to take years as he waited for whatever would happen next. Any thoughts he might have had of attempting to talk about the kiss had been swept away by his dream. He didn’t think he’d be able to look at her without blushing, was sure he couldn’t look her in the eye. Now she was approaching him, and he forced himself to glance up and smile, desperately trying to block all thoughts of the dream from his mind. She smiled back as she passed him his coffee, almost but not quite meeting his eyes, the only sign she gave that anything was different. She was chatting about the post, about how much of it there was today, and it was unlike her to make inane comments but he got the message she was trying to convey - we’re only going to talk about work. Luckily he had his already spread out across the desk in front of him and could swiftly return his focus to it, and they naturally slipped into normal working mode as they always did. By mid morning her slight awkwardness was gone, though he wasn’t sure he could meet her gaze yet, tendrils of the dream still curling around his consciousness. By the next day they were back to normal. Strike was both deeply relieved and in some measure bereft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit short so I’ll get the final chapter up ASAP, is much longer.


	9. Nick and Strike again

Nick queued at the bar for their third pints, wondering at what point to bring up the subject of Robin. He couldn’t risk doing it too soon and having Strike close him down, but it needed to be soon enough that he’d remember all the details to report back to Ilsa. His wife had made his mission very clear.

She had arrived back from shopping and lunch with Robin at six in the evening the previous Saturday, slightly tipsy from day drinking, and recounted Robin’s story, curled up on their sofa with a mug of tea. She cried as she told him about the rape and subsequent court case that Robin had endured so many years ago, and gritted her teeth angrily at the thought of Matthew and Sarah Shadlock. Nick listened to the tale, reminded anew why he loved her so much, his empathetic wife who felt everyone else’s pain but denied her own.

“Why on earth did she go ahead and marry him if she knew all this?” he wondered.

Ilsa sighed. “She was scared,” she said. “She still is scared, of trying to be with anyone else. I’m not sure she even considered there were other options than making it work with Matthew. She thought he’d chosen her, but I think she’s come to realise that probably what happened had tied them together when otherwise they might have split.”

Then she grinned. “But that’s not the most important thing she told me,” she went on. “Listen to this. She and Corm got a bit pissed celebrating the end of a case last night and they snogged.”

Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, that would have been the part to lead with here!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Bloody hell, Ils, you were right!”

“Of course I was,” she said impatiently. “But I think that was the end of it, not the start. She dismissed it, said it was a tipsy mistake, a kiss on the cheek that missed.”

Nick snorted. “Yeah, right,” he said. “Maybe on her part, but he’s wanted this for ages. So what’s the problem?”

“Well,” said Ilsa, “I’m still trying to work that out. The important thing is, she does have feelings for Corm. I’m not sure she’s totally accepted it yet, though, she’s quite a long way behind him on this. I got the impression she’s only fairly recently started to see him that way. And she’s comparing herself to Elin and Ciara Porter and Charlotte, and coming up short.”

She sighed. “It’s all tangled up in her head, I think,” she said. “She thinks she’s too young and inexperienced for him. She thinks she’s not his type, and she’s terrified that if anything did happen between them, she wouldn’t live up to his expectations. You know, in bed.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Like Oggy would care about something like that,” he said. “I promise you he won’t be thinking that if he ever does get that far with her.”

“I know that,” Ilsa said, “but she’s younger, and doesn’t know him like we do. I also think she’s genuinely quite scared of going to bed with anyone else. And he doesn’t want to push things or frighten her.”

“Does he know, then, about the rape and Matthew’s affair?”

“Yeah, he does,” Ilsa replied. “He’s known for months, apparently, since before he sacked her and she got married. Explains why he hated Matthew so much. I thought it was unlike him to be jealous.”

“So the problem is,” she went on, “even if they do fancy each other, they both have very good reasons not to take it forward. Corm won’t do anything while they work together. God knows we all know how important the business is to him, how much blood, sweat and tears he’s put into it, almost literally. And she’s scared and thinks he can’t really fancy her after the beautiful women she’s seen him with.”

She looked at him sideways. “I know you said not to meddle,” she said. “But I don’t think they’re going to manage this without a push.”

Nick rolled his eyes fondly. “I know that look,” he said. “What are you planning?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But last time you spoke to Corm, he was adamant that he didn’t feel anything for her beyond noticing she was attractive. I’m sure it’s more than that, but we need to know for sure before we risk shoving them together. You’re going to have to get more information out of him.”

Nick sighed. “I’ll try,” he said, “but you know getting Oggy to talk about his feelings is like trying to get blood out of a stone!”

And now here he was, on the allotted evening a week later, trying to work out how to do exactly that.

His first instinct had been to just ask Strike about the kiss outright, but Ilsa had forbidden that. “He can’t know we know, or I’ll never be able to ambush him,” she’d said. “If he senses a trap, he won’t show up. Be subtle.” Nick sighed as he carried their pints back out to the beer garden. How did I let my wife talk me into this, he wondered.

“So, how’s Robin?” he asked innocently in an unguarded moment in the conversation 20 minutes later. He raised his pint to his lips but watched Strike carefully over the rim of his glass, and saw the flash of expression he’d been looking for pass across his friend’s face at the mention of her name. It wasn’t at all what he had expected to see. He’d expected perhaps a cheeky twinkle, perhaps embarrassment, maybe a hint of fondness at the thought of her. But what he saw was an instant of raw pain, quickly hidden again behind the shutters Strike kept all his emotions behind. Bloody hell, Nick thought, Ilsa is so right. He’s in way deeper than I thought.

“Fine,” Strike said tightly. “Looking well, actually. She’s got a circle of friends now, she’s going out a bit.”

Knowing he needed to play this as though he knew nothing, Nick went for the banter angle. “Need to ask her out quick smart, then, mate,” he said. “If she’s out with the girls, she’ll soon meet someone.”

Strike rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Will you give that a rest, Nick,” he said. “We’re work mates, nothing more.” He stared moodily into his pint. A week ago he had suddenly harboured hopes that there might indeed be something more, but Robin had breezed into work on Monday as though nothing had changed, and had been her normal self all week as though the kiss hadn’t happened. He needed no more proof that she didn’t see him that way at all, that the kiss had indeed just been a tipsymistake. He fished in his coat pocket for his cigarettes and lit one.

“Okay, let me play devil’s advocate here,” Nick said. “What exactly would be wrong with asking her out? I mean, the worst that can happen is she’ll say no, and if you can get past sacking her, you can get past that, surely? And she might say yes.”

Strike stared at him. “And what would that look like?” he demanded. “What, we go on a few dates, it’s awkward, and we still have to work together? And anyway, she wouldn’t say yes. She doesn’t see me that way. It’s not worth the risk.”

Nick noted that Strike was at least no longer trying to pretend he wasn’t interested in Robin. He sighed. “But what if it worked out?” he suggested.

“It wouldn’t,” Strike said shortly. “Trust me. It’s better this way. We’re friends, that’s how it’s going to stay. She’ll meet someone else soon enough.” He took another drag of his cigarette.

“Or you will,” Nick said, but Strike made a dismissive gesture. He couldn’t imagine going out with anyone else at the moment. “My round,” he said, heading for the bar despite the fact that they still had unfinished drinks, effectively ending the conversation.

The conversation moved on, fourth and eventually fifth pints consumed. I’m so going to regret this tomorrow, Nick thought fuzzily. He was regaling Strike with gross medical stories that he knew his friend would find funny, black humour shared by doctors and Army personnel dealing with human frailty. He normally headed home after a couple of pints, but had a feeling there was more to be said on the subject of Robin.

His instinct was right. Halfway down the fifth pint, tongue lubricated by alcohol, Strike abruptly returned to the subject himself.

“Robin wouldn’t want to get straight into another relationship anyway,” he said, almost more to himself than Nick. “She should take some time out, hang out with friends, do what she’s doing.”

“If that’s what she wants,” Nick said. “But you can’t decide that for her.”

Strike looked at him and seemed about to speak, but looked away again. There was a pause. He lit another cigarette and smoked for a minute, thinking.

“We’ve grown... close, over recent months,” he admitted slowly. “We’re good friends and I don’t want to lose that. And she really only sees friendship, I’m sure.”

“But it’s more than that to you.” Nick framed his words as a statement rather than a question.

Strike sighed heavily. “Yeah.” He looked down at his pint again. “I don’t think I could do a few dates or a quick fling, Nick. I’m... too invested for that. And I’d rather just stay friends than have half a something and then have to go back to the sidelines while she finds another Matthew.” He sighed again, pain etched on his face now, and took another drag on his cigarette. Nick extended a tipsy arm and gave his friend’s shoulder a squeeze.

“And she definitely doesn’t feel the same?” he asked. Strike shook his head. “I thought she might at one point, but no. She’s cheerful and friendly and focused on work. There’s nothing more there.”

So nothing further came of the snog, Nick mused to himself. He paused for a moment, trying to marshal his thoughts. I’ve really had enough to drink, he thought.

“Has it crossed your mind that you might be wrong?” he asked slowly. “She’s every bit as dedicated to the business as you are yourself, you know that. Maybe she’s just trying to be professional too.”

Strike looked at him and said nothing. He smoked the last of his cigarette and ground it out in the ashtray at his elbow. Hope and sense and almost five pints of Doom Bar warred within him. He wasn’t even sure what he thought any more. He shrugged.

“You having another?” he asked, pointing his glass at Nick. Nick laughed. “I don’t think I should have had the last one, mate,” he said ruefully. “Ilsa’s not going to be amused when I roll in reeking of alcohol.”

“Just a whisky chaser, then,” said Strike, grinning. “There are advantages to staying single, you know. No one cares how much I drink, I know I’m not sleeping on the sofa tonight!” He laughed and went to order two whiskys.

...

It took Nick three attempts to get his key in his front door. He had a suspicion the whisky had been a double. Normally he would be hoping to try to sneak in quietly, but he knew Ilsa would be waiting up for news.

He finally managed to get the door open but tripped over the step and almost fell into the hallway. Ilsa appeared from the kitchen, tea in hand, and giggled. “Oh, Nick, when will you learn not to try to keep up with Cormoran on a night out?” she said. “He must weigh almost twice what you do.”

“We had a good evening,” said Nick, a trifle unsteadily. “Need coffee.”

“I figured,” Ilsa said. “I’ve made a pot.”

“You’re so ace,” he told her. “Have I told you that lately?”

“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “God, please don’t breathe on me. Let’s get a couple of coffees into you and you can fill me in.”

“You’re right, you know,” he said, weaving his way into the kitchen and clambering onto a bar stool. “Oggy’s so in love with Robin.”

She looked at him. “Is that drunken exaggeration, or do you really think he loves her?” she asked. “Because I did wonder.”

“Well, he didn’t say as such,” Nick said. “But he did say...” he screwed his face up, trying to remember. “He said he was too invested for just a fling.” Ilsa plonked a very sugary coffee in front of him.

“Wow, how much beer did you have to pour down him to get that out of him?” she said, laughing.

“Five pints,” said Nick. “And then there was whisky.”

She giggled. “Sore head tomorrow, then,” she said. “Come on, drink your coffee and let’s get you to bed. Don’t look at me like that, all you’re doing tonight is sleeping. I have an ambush to plan!”

...

“Hi R it’s me. You busy Saturday night? Going to have a few people round for dinner, you fancy it? Nothing special, just food and friends. Ilsa xxx”

“Oggy mate, Ilsa says come for dinner Saturday. She’s making shepherd’s pie. 8ish. Nick.”

...


End file.
